Preparing for Unemployment

So this year, my boss decided that instead of him writing a performance evaluation on each of us teachers, we should write it ourselves. In essence, the one opportunity I have to be given criticism that could be helpful to me, is now gone. Here is the evaluation I wrote on myself: (By the way, does anyone have any leads on open positions for smart-ass middle school teachers?)

Observation of Classroom Practice (required annually): I think I am a pretty spectacular teacher. I work hard to make sure that I am never neglecting math nor drama. That being said, I feel that it is not possible to split me in half and expect an outcome to be wholly spectacular. People tell me I am doing well in two departments, but the truth is that if I was able to teach only one subject, the outcome would be nothing less than miraculous.  I carry a Wonder Woman backpack for a reason. My goal in life is to improve kids’ lives, whether it be through helping them discover a talent they never knew they had or helping them discover the ability to conquer the fear of their most terrified subject. I know I rock, but I wish I could be given the chance to rock a little harder.

Kids need electives, they need help in math. Kids also need teachers who are getting enough sleep and have the opportunity to properly prepare for lessons, evaluate their work and respond to their concerns.  So why aren’t they getting this? If the answer is “budget,” I am going to lose it. I am going to finally fall all the way off my rocker. Most of us know what is best for kids: tons of good teachers and small enough classes so that kids get the opportunity to interact with those professionals. Instead, they get computers. Well, I’m sorry. If computers could teach kids then we’d all be unemployed.

            I feel this rant would end nicely with a metaphor. Being so involved in dramatic arts, I am a proficient juggler. This metaphor compares teaching to juggling. When a person begins to juggle, they are given scarves. Scarves stay afloat longer and are easy to grasp. The juggler then moves onto balls and pins. Once the juggler proves to be an expert, she is then told to juggle fire, chainsaws and other dangerous objects. An amazing juggler can throw and catch many different and terrifying objects at once, in a delicate, mid-air ballet. The juggler can only do this for so long before they reach exhaustion. Eventually, a chainsaw will fall and the juggler’s career (and femoral artery) will be cut short.

A Case of Synnonym Confusion

The counselors at my school are putting together a focus group of students to address some middle school issue or other. They sent around a questionnaire asking students if they would be interested in joining said focus group.

One of my students became immediately terrified and said "Why would we want to join one of those? Isn't that what Hitler did to the Jews?"

No, son. Those are called concentration camps.

The good news is I snapped.

Dead dads and shitty schedules made me very, very tired. Maybe it was just the dead dad that made my work life seem so shitty, but whatever caused it, I've been a terrible teacher for an entire semester. Teaching without passion is like drinking without getting drunk. There's just no point.

I would like to announce that the despression cloud has lifted. In a glorious display of sarcasm, anger and self-righteousness, my desire to live passionately returned. Last Friday I walked into my boss' office and (very loudly) announced that he had allowed his ego to superceed what was best for kids. I also added that his sloppy handling of school operations was not only unfair to students, but illegal. After my berrating monologue directed at my seated boss, I took a deep breath, felt the sweat that had pooled in various areas of my body and prepared to be told to quietly return to my room and be a team player. Instead, a look of panic fell upon is face and he... apologized.

I feel so alive.

Missed Conections

You: a hot, greasy McRib, slathered in BBQ sauce. The sun was glistening off the reflective surface of your billboard about a mile from my house. The caption next to you said "Missed me?"

Me: driving past you, finding myself jealous of the box of fries resting next to you. I did miss you, with all my heart. I'm fighting the urge to order you and gobble you right up, McRib. Why must you torture me? You are gone most of the year and then just show up around the holidays, expecting me to take you back? I haven't even seen you since last January. Just go McRib, it easier if I never see you again.

Children and Guns and Dr. Seuss

This week I received two pictures of my brother's children. The first was a beautiful nature shot of my niece and nephew, both under the age of ten, bundled in their winter coats, posed proudly next to two deer carcasses and the guns that killed them.

The second was all three of his kids. The oldest boy in a Cat in the Hat costume and his two little sisters dressed as Thing 1 and Thing 2. How adorable they were, and innocent looking. Then it occurred to me. If a child can look so harmless in a striped stovepipe hat and large bow tie, and also be capable of murdering a deer, then what else are they capable of?

Be careful this Halloween season, you don't know what these little creatures can do.

Whatever story your son is telling you, the truth is: he punched me.

It's so nice to meet you. Thank you so much for coming to your son's parent-teacher conference. I know we have never met, even though I had Stephen in class last year. I'd just like to say, no matter what your son has told you, he is the one who punched me in the mouth.

I'm sure he's at least mentioned the incident last year, but let me be clear: I did not bite your son's hand. I'm sure he will tell elaborate stories about how other students saw me bite him and how I called him a liar. Honestly, who are you going to believe? Some snot-faced kid who punches teachers in the mouth? Or me? Look at me, I'm like, a grown-up.

I'm sorry about having to tell you that your son is a liar, and prone to violence against educated women, but I think it's best that you know. I hope you are able to find him some help. He may need years of therapy to reprogram his obviously confused memory. How sad, I think he actually believes that I bit his hand and then lied about him punching me. Poor kid.

A Teacher's Funeral

Here's the deal. I know this guy who was a teacher at a school in my district. He was the drama teacher (like me) and did a lot of shows at the community theater (twinsies!). This guy was a really nice teacher guy, and honestly I didn't know him that well, but rather knew of him. Anyway, I thought it would be prudent for me to attend the memorial service and pay my respects, along with the rest of the theater community.

I show up and there are a lot of nicely dress kids there. "Wow," I thought, "How nice of them to pay their respects by showering and putting on clean clothes." During the service, lots of actors and other directors got up to memorialize this man's contributions to their lives and the community as a whole. Then the kids began to bravely, and tearfully, speak about their "favorite teacher." Their words were kind, and truthful and eloquent (for the most part.) As the audience sat in the theater and shed a few well-deserved tears, listening to children speak from their hearts, I was suddenly struck with a sobering thought: "What will the children say about me when I die?" Here are a few possibilities:

"She used to tell me to turn my face off."
"She fell a lot."
"Even when she threatened me with the pointiest part of her elbow, I knew she was kidding."
"One time she bit my hand." (I will argue, to my grave, that kid punched me in the mouth.)
"Sometimes we thought she might be possessed by some type of evil spirit."
"I remember how she used to say that the crushed soul was the most delicious part of the child."
"I'm pretty sure she wasn't a real teacher."
"She used singing as a torture device."
"I think she changed her name so often because she was running from the law."

I'm not saying that this sudden realization is going to make me change my teaching strategies, just that if I die, you might want to record what the children have to say. It could be entertaining.